 Happy Monday everybody…welcome to the frozen tundra of Northwest Oklahoma. As Tornado Payne-in-My-Ass (supreme TV weather wizard here) keeps repeating (over and over), the snow is “blowing and going”…whatever the hell that means. I get antsy when I’m weathered inside the house. It won’t be long before I head out on the roads though I have ZERO business out there this morning. I should become one of Payne’s weather chasers though I tend to get kind of lazy and would most likely decide to sit up on this hill where The Compound is located and call in reports. Why not? We can see weather coming from Texas and/or Kansas from here. Or, I suppose I could send Cousin Fred out to drive around in the rotten dogsh*t weather (actual Naval Aviation term) while I call in to the News 9 station and tell them what I’m “experiencing.” Now that’s weather guessing at its best! Oh, in case you haven’t noticed we’re back “live” here at CCB. This medical stuff keeps dragging on and the busier I can keep myself, the less I’m sweating the small stuff, you know? So, I’ll keep punching the nonsense out until they drag me off to OR…hahaha. You lucky devils! Not a lot of distractions here today. The medical marijuana enterprise, fried hedgeapple (aka, Osage oranges) slices enterprise, and self-help guru enterprise are currently on hold. Cousin Fred and Friend Lamont have spent the past couple of days trying to get us a sandhill crane for Thanksgiving. I know, right? I’d never given the cranes much thought. They are a constant in the skies over The Compound this time of year as they wing south to get out from under the weather. A friend of mine in OKC refers to them as the ribeyes of the sky…I thought he was kidding. He’s not. Look it up on Google images people…that looks darned tasty! Here’s how you too can spot the flocks of migrating sandhill cranes: 1) they’re heading south; 2) they make a noise that doesn’t sound like a goose; and, 3) they fly in no discernible formation whatsoever (my kind of birds). Because they come over The Compound at altitude (probably a few hundred feet, out of shotgun range) and don’t stop here (would you?), Cousin Fred and his “hunting” partner have taken to firing their AK-47s into the flocks overhead. So far, they haven’t hit crap, but he’s determined to get one or two for us to eat at Thanksgiving. I pointed out to those two fools that neither has a state hunting license, but they aren’t worried. They (re)pointed out that the game ranger around here seldom pulls off the highway to investigate anything – unless of course it’s to urinate in the north pasture in full sight of women and children here at The Compound (pervert). Cousin Fred makes a good point, though I’m beginning to worry about the remnants of their anti-aircraft barrage falling back to earth and punching holes in my roof. But then again, they’re using Russian ammo that seems to disintegrate easily, so no big deal (stupid Russians). But, hey, it’ll be a great Thanksgiving (if they ever hit anything) and we have a lot of people coming who are bringing their binoculars to observe Game Ranger Peesalot (pervert) do his business in the north pasture. Okay, that’s enough for now. More to come! That is all! Comments are closed.
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